


False Idols

by TheRamPaige



Series: Dream SMP Fics [2]
Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Gen, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Manipulation, Oneshot, green man angst because I want to, suck it green boi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-12 02:48:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29003232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRamPaige/pseuds/TheRamPaige
Summary: What matters when nothing does, when you aren't what you deserve to be?He is not who he was, and he hates it.
Series: Dream SMP Fics [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2152728
Kudos: 11





	False Idols

He is not what he was, and he hates it.

A false god where he once was true, an idol now worth less than the dirt he stood on.

He hates what he is now, hates them for making him this way, hates them most of all for _hating him for what they made him into._

It isn’t his fault, and one way or another they will see that.

At first he had hardly noticed the difference, the “exorcism” had been a joke between him and friends, nothing more.

Then it had worked.

There was a split second moment he could feel the shift, like every cell of his body was flying apart and crashing together, blurring colours melting him down to his core, and then he had fallen hard on the burnt soil, from grace.

When he came to there had been fire, and what was once his was gone.

He convinced himself it was a fluke for a time, that it was nothing more than some magic messing with him a little, that he would return to normal with time; it was Tubbo and Fundy after all, what could they have done?

They had stolen his godhood away.

Oh sure, he was still immensely powerful- he could do things no one else could, and what he said went (to a certain degree), outwardly nothing had changed, but everything was different.

He feels so… exposed, defenseless while wrapped in god armor. It’s fear, and it’s disgusting.

His friends were there still, the ones who cursed him, the ones so blissfully unaware of how his skin crawled at how weak he felt with their eyes on him, looking up at something that wasn’t there anymore.

It was only a matter of time before they noticed, before everything he had left would fall apart, and that wasn’t saying much. If he had no power, no control, who was he? What did he have to his name? What did he have to lose, to gain? They would abandon him when he had no more to offer them, who was he to kid himself? He had to abandon them first, it would be the only way. It didn’t hurt as much as he thought it would, as much as it should’ve.

One of the bunch had seen through him from the beginning, seen how fragile he was even before he did, before he fell; Tommy, and it _stung_ more with each passing day.

He just didn’t care, he didn’t understand, and he never cared to try. He just did what he wanted, cared about trivial temporary things that meant nothing. There had been others like him, like Wilbur with his rebellious phase, but everyone had eventually fallen into place. Everyone except him.

It drove him up the wall.

Existence as whatever he was now was confusing. He didn’t know what he wanted, but he knew what he needed- what he craved; they all had to listen, to be his in one way or another, and Tommy was a disruption to that.

Had been a disruption to that, until he had dealt with it; using his pieces carefully to oust him from the board. He had dragged him back and forth through the mud, through his same confusion of what was real, what was his, who he belonged to, until he fell like the rest to their places, fell from his pillar.

He fell into the water.

He had pushed too far, not accounting for the last little sparks of his fire catching the wind back home, but that was fine. Fuses were lit swiftly by his return, promises in gunpowder followed through. 

Still he was not happy, he did not _have_ them. Instead of being his they scattered from their crater like cockroaches, hiding in holes they still called by their names instead of his. Still he had pieces of all of them, and places for pieces he would have, pieces they tied so closely to their souls like fools, like a fool he had been forced not to be.

There were only a couple loose ends left, one to cut, and one to knot up and shove aside where he belongs.

He toys with them, having a last game with these vintage pieces, and when it came to an end he would have been satisfied. All he wanted was to be satisfied again, but the universe said no.

Now he’s rotting, a piece of his own game, of his own making, stifled and miserable.

He is not what he was, and he hates it.


End file.
